


A Narcissistic Frivolity

by Hielo



Category: Final Fantasy IX
Genre: Bickering, But I know there are people who ship them as well, Canon Compliant, Drama & Romance, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, I feel so alone with this pairing, M/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), Rare Pairings, Slow Burn, This Is For You, a lot of teasing, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27804709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hielo/pseuds/Hielo
Summary: "Art is alive!Whether as a painting or on stage.The audience has to notice how she breathes, how she feels.Only when you can bring that spark of feeling into people, are you allowed to call yourself an artist."- Lowell Bridges
Relationships: Lowell Bridges/Aspiring Artist Michael





	A Narcissistic Frivolity

**Author's Note:**

> My most random OTP of all time but one that is so much fun to explore.  
> It just...gives me so much room for character building and story :D
> 
> This fic will be updated very irregulary. 
> 
> Feedback is of course welcome...especially since this is such a niche ship.
> 
> But most important: Please have fun reading <3

He was really not someone who could be easily frightened or confused. It wasn't easy to shock him, either.  
Yes, he described himself as a calm, relaxed character and was also completely satisfied when other people perceived him in this way.  
He left the need for fanatical attention primarily to his paintings, his busts and other artistic creations.  
If they ever received such recognition. Otherwise Michael was happy with his existence as a background character. As long as he was remembered.

But a nearly 2 meter tall moogle in front of his own door would probably let even the most ascetic monk derail his facial features.  
He should have realized that this chilly day in November day would be a strange one. His coffee had tasted far too bitter, the milk had gone bad and his bread had fallen from his hand onto the floor with the butter side down.

That this huge stuffed animal had pushed past him into his studio, stumbled down the short stone stairs and crouched in a corner without saying a word, confirmed Michael's assumption that he would have been better off in bed today.  
"Close it! Hurry," mumbled the animal to him in a trembling male voice and made the young artist curiously stretch his head through the open door.

On the forecourt of the air cab station, which was opposite his studio, all that could be heard at first was the usual snorting of the steam engine and the cawing of a few birds. In the background, voices blurred in the urban sounds of the lindblumian metropolis, but apart from an elderly man feeding the pigeons, hardly anyone was out on the streets. Little by little, quick steps and loud chatter moved towards him and made Michael close the door abruptly except for a small gap.  
Within minutes a screaming mass of women stormed into the square, uncontrolled and untamed like a pack of foreign predators on the prowl. Many screamed and clamoured, some even cried, but they were all united by the longing for something...or someone. 

After carefully closing the door, he slowly stepped down the stairs, watching the pink monster that still cowered in the corner of the room.  
When the moogle finally realized that he was alone with Michael, he stood up hesitantly and looked around for a moment with big, black button eyes.

"Finally...", the monster sighed visibly unnerved and now fought against the huge head on his shoulders. 

Amused, Michael kept an eye on the strange spectacle.  
He couldn't deny that he was interested in which creature was trying to free itself from its cocoon. It must be one of the newcomers at the big theatre, because of the veterans he heard about from time to time, nobody had such a fan club.  
Michael couldn't get much out of such a cult. He knew exactly what these kind of women were after and he didn't envy the poor wretch in the costume for this fact.  
However, he had no sympathy for the figureheads of these cults either, because keeping his shrieking mob in check did not occur to these stuck-up youngsters. Such a degree of false affection and reverence was offensive to Michael in an obnoxious fashion.  
So he decided to get rid of this self-made idol as soon as possible, after all he still had work to do.

Moments later the grotesque object revealed the face of a young man. Sweaty and a bit dishevelled he shook his light blue hair extensively and then started to peel off the rest of the costume.  
That's when the Gil dropped for Michael.

"You're that actor...Bridge, aren't you?" he asked, and sat down on the lowest step of the stairs.  
That he had let himself be taken by surprise by this superstar annoyed Michael in a very special way. 

"Lowell Bridges, you ignorant dilettante," the actor blurted angrily and with an overly dramatic gesture threw his hair over his shoulders. "And you are?"  
Instead of waiting for an answer, Lowell walked around the studio for a few moments, giving each work a less appreciative glance.  
"A sort of painter, I suppose?"

"Apparently," Michael grumbled.

Oh, he had read about Lowell. Everything about this guy embodied exactly his problems with the performing arts. The phony, the dishonest. That you never really know who you're dealing with. But above all, this shameless self-glorification, coupled with a sheer immeasurable arrogance, were what he remembered from the newspaper article. He was hardly surprised that under these circumstances he experienced it in its pure form in the flesh.

"Apparently ...", the actor repeated unimpressed, sat down on a footstool near the working table and crossed his slender legs. With his relaxed, elegant matter-of-factness he looked like a king in expectation of royal special treatment.  
"A coffee would be nice"

"Excuse me?"

Michael was stunned. Did Lowell expect him to serve him? After he just walked into his atelier?

"I think you'd better go, Mr Bridges," he pressed out.  
It was obvious he was struggling with his temper, but Lowell was only smiling flirtatiously.

"All right, what do you want? An autograph? Money?", he said in a butter-soft voice, but it was obvious that Michael would not slip on it.

"I want you to leave." 

"Heavens, we are touchy today. But what if the pack is still lurking outside your door, Mr. Artist?"

Even before Lowell had finished speaking, Michael had climbed back up the stairs, taken a quick, probing look at the street and was now standing at the open door.  
Michael could literally hear Lowell's eyes rolling in annoyance and he unraveled his crossed legs with an elegant swing. This was followed by a stretching of the long limbs and an extensive examination of the own fingers.

'Fighting for time, par excellence', thought Michael as he kept a sceptical eye on his uninvited guest.  
He could understand why the hearts of the women flew to Lowell like words to a poet kissed by the muse or to a brazen customer's extra wishes. The light blue hair was a little dishevelled from wearing the moogle head, but fell neatly along the androgynous face with the well-meant layer of make-up - no doubt stage make-up - and ended in a curl, emphatically twisted, at about chin level.  
Because of the tight-fitting cream-coloured suit one could clearly see the result of many hours of physical training, nevertheless his appearance seemed rather fragile and out of touch.  
'The perfect wind-up doll, disgusting...' mumbled Michael in his thoughts but couldn't help but assign the adjective 'beautiful' to Lowell.  
One more reason to finally put the actor back on the street.

"All right," Lowell sighed dramatically and reached for the huge costume he had carelessly left lying on the studio floor. 

Michael watched in silence as the young man unlovingly climbed back into his furry prison and tucked the large plush head under his arm. In the mountain of soft pink fur, the small human head that stuck out of it looked almost amusingly out of place and Michael withheld a short laugh.  
Before Lowell finally left the building and put on his mogry face, he turned back to Michael again. 

"If you ever feel like watching REAL art, come to the theatre. I'll be glad to get you some tickets, if you ask nicely." 

"Continued success, Mr Bridges.”

And with one swift motion, the heavy wooden door slammed back into the lock.  
As the tide drew the water back into the sea, in a few moments all tension was gone from the small studio. Michael took a deep breath and then returned to his easel. Disgruntled, he realized that the paint he had last used to paint with had already dried on his palette and was therefore unusable.  
"Hmph...", he grumbled and hoped that the dry paint would remain the last negative surprise of the day.

A few days later - it had become December in the meantime - a slight knock tore Michael away from his well-deserved cup of coffee.  
It had its advantages to run the studio in the basement of a residential building - it was pleasantly cool in summer and easy to heat in winter - but he hadn't gotten used to the constant running up and down stairs during the four years he had lived here.

He could use the clients at the moment more than well, so he was not too upset about the sudden disturbance during his break. As a freelance and aspiring artist he didn't have to starve, but Michael was still years or decades away from luxury and prestige.  
Often enough he was unsure whether he wanted to rise to the ranks of painters and sculptors. Especially when he saw the brightly painted ladies and gentlemen from Treno fluttering past his window on their way to the next theater performance, his stomach turned a little more every time.  
The idea of working to the whistle of these sirs and madams upset him, but it was the only way he could be sure that his work would be recorded for posterity with meaning. An artistic dilemma without equal.

He was all the more perplexed when a familiar face stood on his doorstep and, unimpressed, stroked the hood of his fur-trimmed cape from his head. Without the meter-thick layer of make-up, Michael would hardly have recognized him, but he would probably find the artfully curled hair in any crowd.  
Just like that smug smile.

"I won't hide you again, Mr. Bridges," growled Michael and stood broadly in the doorway, so as not to give the young man in front of him any chance of entering. 

Lowell glanced at his counterpart for a moment before he turned to his fingernails.  
"Well, too bad," he said, unfazed, and ran his fingers through his hair, "But no, I'm here for personal reasons."  
With a quick reach into his cape, he revealed a small bundle of leather and held it out to Michael.

"Though others would probably give their soul and a leg up to have me around for five minutes, I am a man who knows how to say thank you."

Puzzled, Michael accepted the sachet and found some shimmering gold coins inside.  
He turned up his nose dismissively. Who did this little preppy man think he was?

"I don't accept charity from you," the artist grumbled and pressed the bag back into Lowell's hands. "You stormed into my studio without being asked, that's not much to do with help."

Lowell sighed excessively. His patience seemed to have reached its limit.  
"Oh PLEASE! This pathetic excuse from a garage could well use the few Gil. Even though talent can't be bought with money yet, a little professional equipment would do you good."

"I don't want your money and I demand you leave me alone!" 

Once again, Michael slammed the door in Lowell's face. He could still hear things like 'wasted potential' and 'amateur' before the environment returned to normal city sounds and his muscles relaxed.  
Let this peacock stick his money where his mouth is. Michael had neither the time nor the nerve to invest it in a person like Lowell Bridges. Moreover, such self-indulgent individuals like the extravagant actor were better completely outside of Michael's personal environment.  
He decided not to waste any more thought on Lowell and to devote himself to his work again. His coffee had probably already gotten cold.

As evening slowly came, Michael was sitting in an air cab heading for the industrial district and looked dozily out of the window.  
Of course he had spent the rest of the day brooding about this strange guy called Lowell and to distract himself he had decided to meet up with some friends from Lindblum's artistic scene. These meetings had become rare, especially over the winter, and Michael was looking forward to exchanging interesting ideas and inspiration.  
Although he would not necessarily describe himself as an extrovert, he too drew energy from the company of like-minded people from time to time. Especially conversations with people who had similar views on aesthetics and artistic creation activated just the right amount of happiness in Michael. Perhaps this selective bliss was ultimately the reason for his small circle of acquaintances and for the constant failure of deeper or even romantic relationships with someone.  
Michael didn't know it for sure, but a part of him was glad that he gave little weight to this aspect of a normal life. 

With an extended puffing and the sound of slowing rotors, the air cab stopped at the station in the industrial district. Leisurely Michael walked past the large statue of the previous Duke, Cid VIII, which stood impressively in the middle of the station forecourt. A true piece of craftsmanship when it came to detail and quality.  
Some time ago Michael had the opportunity to meet the sculptor in person and to get advice from him. Since then his own works had become more popular and he was still happy that the old artist had apparently been doing advertising. 

As he descended the stairs towards the church, he discovered the decorated wooden door of the small tavern, peacefully situated between the few houses of this quarter, with a prominent sign to encourage entry.  
Cosy light and quiet conversations met him, accompanied by the sweet smell of the house beer and the occasional cigar smoke. The waitress buzzed busily between the tables and the counter and did her best to refill the customers' empty glasses with drinks. Michael liked it here at this time of day. It wasn't too late for drunk people to fight, but not too early to catch the lunch rush. 

"Ah, welcome. That table over there is free for you," Michael heard it calling from the counter and he spotted the owner of the shop who was drying his hands on his apron.

"Over here!"

In one corner of the tavern a furry hand waved at him. The sprightly dog named Barlo smiled at him peacefully through his impressive moustache and as Michael fought his way through the mess of tables and people, he noticed Zaza sitting next to Barlo. There was as well a mild smile on the young woman's face, which Michael returned while he sat down and ordered a drink. 

"Glad you came, my boy," Barlo greeted and put one hand on Michael's shoulder.

"Yes, it's really good to see you again," added Zaza, sipping her wine and sorting out her dark brown hair. Michael had almost forgotten how pleasant it felt to be welcome somewhere. Even the beer tasted a little bit better.

In the following hours, the friends' conversations revolved mainly around various artistic techniques, new customer wishes and the direction that the Lindblum architecture has taken since the new duke took up his duties.  
Finally, Michael was able to switch off a little, enjoying the relaxation that both the alcohol and the company of his fellow artists gave him. Nevertheless, both Zaza and Barlo lacked the last spark of understanding for what he wanted to express with his work.  
He wasn't really bothered by this, he wasn't used to it any differently and the peaceful rendezvous was a liberating experience even without that missing drop. So he decided, as so often before, to sit back and switch off.

"I went to the theatre the other night. That big one near your studio, Michael," Zaza said, nibbling on a nut from the bowl in the middle of the table.

"What? You and theatre?", Barlo asked in surprise. Even Michael could remember that the young woman usually had little love for music and acting. She was a visual artist through and through.  
Michael emptied his beer with one strong tug.

"Why didn't you come by? It's just around the corner."

Zaza's lips were adorned with a flattering smile.  
"No no, I had my little sister with me. She has a crush on this popular actor and asked if I would watch a performance of him together. The dear puberty..."

"Oh..."  
A certain amount of disgust rose in Michael, who knew exactly who the actor was. In his mind's eye, Lowell's insolent grin had long since reappeared. He wondered if he should mention to Zaza that the actor in question wanted to give him money this afternoon for his unwanted intrusion into Michael's privacy. Uncomfortably, he shoved a nut in his mouth.

"Hohoho, to be young again," Barlo laughed heartily "I hope it wasn't too boring."

"That's just it; it was really good! That guy on stage was really good. I was totally captivated, even though I didn't understand much about the play itself. It was about a prince who..."

And so Zaza began to talk about her evening in the theatre, to review the plot and to praise Lowell's acting again and again.  
Michael listened only sporadically. His thoughts had got stuck on the combination of 'Lowell' and 'really good' and now he tried to find the connection between these two components.  
That turned out to be almost impossible.  
What was so wonderful about this dazzling peacock that he could even win over the theater-shy Zaza? 

"Must be an unpleasant fellow. These pretentious people are all sitting on horses that are far too high. You'd better take good care of your sister," Michael began to rant after Zaza had ended. "I regularly have a screaming mob of young girls outside my studio, all of them thirsty for that Lowell."

"Whoa, not so scratchy, dear boy. Are you engaged in a personal vendetta against Bridges?" Barlo asked when he saw Zaza's gritty face.  
Michael shook his head.

"No, but I absolutely dislike such slick characters who think they are the crown of creation. You never know what's real and what's not with them."

"Do you know him personally?" Zaza replied, almost offended. It seemed like it was too late for her to resist Lowell's charms. "Maybe he's a nice guy."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure he is."

"Michael, don't you think you should never judge a book until you've read it?"

For the rest of the evening what Michael had sought protection from,happened: he thought most intensely about Lowell Bridges and his impossible niceness.

The new year was slowly but surely approaching. In a few days Michael was to deliver a sculpture to his client - an unpleasant and stingy person - and he was still far from having completed the work. His desire to finish this strange object was so low that for hours he avoided even looking at the damn thing. It was only when he could no longer do otherwise that the artist faced his new nemesis. So he was sitting on the small stool in front of the workbench with a warm cup of tea and examined where he had to start next with the chisel.  
Something was missing from the statue. Only Michael knew absolutely not what.

Then there was a knock. At first briefly, then panicked several times.  
The young man was indeed expecting another potential client and with this conviction he put his cup on the table and stood up. Someone must have been earlier than expected.  
Quickly Michael hurried up the stairs and opened the door a crack, only to close it again immediately afterwards and to slap himself mentally for his carelessness. 

"I told you to leave me alone," he shouted irritatedly, "What's not to understand about that?"

The knocking repeated.  
"Let me in! It's an emergency, I promise. This is the last time you'll have me at your door."

Oh, Michael should have just gone back to work. Maybe put a record on and pretend the sculpture was the most important thing in the world. Instead, he opened the door with a sudden jerk and a rushed Lowell tumbled into the small studio.  
Quickly he flitted down the stairs a bit, so that he was no longer visible through the windows and only then did he allow himself to take a breath.

"I'll be out of here in a minute, but today they were...well...," Lowell grumbled and examined his bared elbow, which showed a small scratch.

"What exactly is it that always drives you to me?" asked Michael, accepting his fate.  
At least he had an excuse for his conscience to put this boring job aside.  
Besides, the conversation with Zaza slowly crept back into his memory.

Lowell laughed briefly.  
"I'd like to know that myself. I guess I just remembered your broken-down home."

After a sound of displeasure, Michael opened his front door again.  
"Out! Now!"

"It was a compliment. Art is useless if it vanishes into the masses without a trace. And I've thought about you constantly, so I guess your... 'works' have a reason to exist. Don't you think?"

The door closed again and Michael was actually at a loss for words.  
Lowell was right.  
Silently, the artist walked back into the workspace of his studio and reached for his cup of tea in passing. Fortunately it was still warm.

"Say, do you actually live here too?" asked Lowell, who followed Michael and finally sat down at the table with the waiting commissioned work.  
His eyes wandered extensively through the studio, just as they had on his first visit.

Michael leaned against the wall to the kitchenette, sipping the warm drink quietly before turning around and putting the kettle back on.  
"Not really. There's another room and a bathroom further back. That's enough for me," he replied briefly, lighting the fireplace under the stove with a few matches. 

Most of the time Michael stayed in the workshop nevertheless. Often he slept on the small sofa in the corner when a project had really got to him and he felt that in his bed he would lose his inspiration.

"This one's missing something," he heard Lowell say, and he knew it referred to the statue at the workbench. "I wouldn't remember that thing in 10 minutes. You better throw it away."

How Michael would love to do that.  
"This is a commission. If I throw it away, I won't get any money," he explained, putting a cup of coffee in front of Lowell.  
But he waited in vain for a thank you. Not that he had expected one.

"I know how commissions work, Mr Sculptor. But nobody pays a Gil for that kind of trash. What is that even supposed to be?"

"The client's wife."

"Hmm, I would have guessed a Zaghnol." 

Lowell calmly sipped his coffee and seemed to be thinking hard. What should Michael do with him?  
This little fop came into his home, insulted his work and sat at his table with a naturalness that any aristocrat would have been proud of. Michael should throw him out again as soon as possible. For some reason, Lowell knew exactly which levers to use to make Michael furious, even though they didn't know each other. Maybe it had something to do with acting.

As Lowell moved the coffee cup to his mouth again, a small drop of red liquid slid down his arm, leaving a stain on the frill of his shirt.

"You're bleeding," Michael noted dryly. 

The actor looked at his elbow and pulled his face in annoyance.  
"Great, Idris's gonna kill me," he said when he noticed the stain. 

The wound seemed to interest him less.  
After thinking for a moment, Michael stepped into the kitchen once more, moistened a cloth with cool water and handed it to Lowell.  
Waiting in vain for a thank you, part 2. 

"Listen!," said the young actor euphorically, pressing the cloth onto his elbow "Since you've apparently never seen a naked woman before, you'd better use a trick. If you..."  
He drew a shape with his fingers along the silhouette of the figure.  
"Up to about here, if you put something else in focus, a cloth or flowers or water, it visually diminishes the appearance."

Michael hadn't thought of that.  
The client had asked for something 'simple', but a piece of fabric would not change the simplicity and the result would still be more elegant. 

"You've got to go back to the face, too," Lowell continued, "...the features have to be much softer. Imagine her thinking of something incredibly beautiful. A declaration of love, for example. Try to imagine how that would make you feel."

That could be the reason why he was so dissatisfied with his work.  
Lack of feeling.  
But how could he evoke such a specific emotionality, which he himself had only felt once or twice?  
Besides, these new influences meant that Michael would have to start all over again.  
Silently he looked at Lowell, who was obviously extremely proud of himself and his wisdom.

"Don't look so bewildered, I know I'm right. It's no different when you get into a role, if you think about it carefully. Which you've obviously never done before," Lowell whispered in a good mood "Preparation is the be-all and end-all of any art form."

Michael felt his ears begin to get hot.  
But he had no idea whether it was out of anger or shame. He didn't even know how to defend himself.  
Of course, they had learned at the academy to paint or sculpt naked people. But Michael would have had to lie if he claimed nudes were his favourite subject. 

"That's enough, Mr Bridges. I thank you for your...advice but you'd better leave," he pressed out aggressively.  
That arrogant little brat. Who did he think he was?

"I can't say that I have any great interest in the visual arts. But even I see their overlap with my profession.  
Art is alive! Whether as a painting or on stage. The audience has to notice how she breathes, how she feels. Only when you can bring that spark of feeling into people, are you allowed to call yourself an artist," Lowell philosophized unimpeded, not realizing how much he was stirring up the fire in Michael "If you don't even know that, you're even more amateurish than I thought.”

"Now listen to me. Can you open your oversized mouth without letting out offensive crap? I've had enough!" 

He grabbed Lowell roughly by the wrist and dragged him up the stairs to the door.  
Angry chunks of thought pulsated in his head and all he wanted was to be left alone. Peace from this terrible man who had forced himself upon him.

"Easy now, I'm hurt," the actor whispered with amusement as he let himself be dragged behind a boiling Michael.

"Well, me too," Michael growled in reply, opened the door and pushed Lowell out into the street.

A deep breath. Then another. And then another.  
Finally his pulse had eased and he sat down on the top step of the stairs, agitated. How dare Lowell?  
How could this smug actor dare to say exactly what Michael could never put into words?  
'Art is alive!' it echoed in his ears and he hated himself for the fact that it had to be Lowell Bridges who shared that particular understanding of art with him.

It was quite cool at night this time of year, despite the moderate climate of the continent of mist, and Michael was glad to have found a fairly respectable cape in his wardrobe.  
The way to the big theatre was not far, but a part of him was afraid to attract attention if he appeared on the forecourt without a cape.  
And for a change it was quite pleasant to feel 'chic'. With his brown hair combed back, his vest and his dark trousers he wouldn't stand out negatively among the other visitors of the theatre. At most his demotivated face could suggest that he definitely had better things to do than to watch a play with Lowell in it.

A bath in the shine of the young star seemed to him like a shower in nails and with every step he took forward he wondered why he was doing this to himself.  
The ticket was a gift from his last employer. As it was Lowell who had finally saved his neck at the statue -Oh, the Lord was SO delighted -, his conscience would never forgive him if he gave the ticket to someone or let it expire.

If he was honest, he wanted to put an end to the whole 'Lowell Bridges' thing that night.  
His life had to go on without this extravagant prick, who definitely didn't deserve the many thoughts Michael had about him. This curiosity that burned within him would certainly be extinguished with this pompous display of hubris. Since their last meeting it was clear to Michael that there was something in Lowell that might be worth his interest.  
Of course he wished he was wrong. After all, his knowledge of human nature was bad enough to be wrong.  
And to make sure, this ticket came in very handy.

The theater square was already full of people when Michael stepped down the decorated stone stairs and almost instantly ran into a bunch of squealing women.  
The concentrated femininity whispered quiet expressions of love while they excitedly controlled their appearance again and again.  
They seemed to pay particular attention to their prominently wrapped busts and the brightly painted faces. Michael shuddered at this sight and he quickly moved away to a quieter corner.  
Were these the more intimate companion-ships that Lowell indulged in? To really believe that the actor could pick out one of the ladies for a private get-together when needed, he couldn't. He also discovered some very presentable men among the guests, who obviously wouldn't say no to a meeting for two and he wondered if these gentlemen met Lowell's taste more. But this line of thought, of which Michael didn't even understand his right to exist, also vanished into nothingness. The only sure thing was that he himself didn't find anything that would arouse this one certain attention in him. Neither ladies nor gentlemen or any other person present. Not that he was consciously on the lookout, but if one was surrounded by such a hormone cocktail, considerations like this tended to come up.

After a while, a small, chubby man announced that everyone should get to their seats quickly and within minutes a colourful mass of people poured into the building.  
Disgruntled, Michael let himself be carried away by the river and found himself surprisingly quickly in one of the front rows of chairs with a wonderful view of the stage. He wanted to go home. Every fiber of his body signaled to him that he didn't belong here. Between a bulky man with a well-kept full beard and an older lady who probably wore her entire jewelry cabinet on her body, Michael felt like a single red dot on a snow-white screen.  
This inconspicuousness in the midst of pure conspicuousness was even more unpleasant to him than the other way around and he was sure, the figures around him were already whispering about his relatively simple outfit. 

The sudden chime of the bell and the slowly dimming light covered Michael's nervous mind like a protective blanket.  
A wave of relief seized him as a gentle melody announced the beginning of the show, but he needed a few moments to breathe and concentrate on what was happening in front of him. 

The first scenes were rather unspectacular.  
A young, exiled prince is on his way to conquer his kingdom back, with a magician at his side. During the journey he learns of a captured princess and that he must acquire a divine weapon to defeat the evil. Michael knew the template of the play; it was one of Master Avelon's works, which he had enjoyed reading as a child.  
It irritated him that Lowell did not play the leading role of the prince, although he had been used for advertising.  
And the rest of the audience seemed to be just waiting to see the great star in action as well. 

The other performers also cut a good figure and Michael found himself feeling pity for the rest of the ensemble. Even some burmecian actors were among them, which was not a granted fact and deserved respect according to Michael's opinion. Usually the shy rat people stayed in their land of eternal rain. Burmecians rarely worked in any other of the three great empires of the continent of the mist; especially since rumors of the mental instability of the Queen of Alexandria were circulating.

"Now...," Michael heard a girl whispering behind him. A few moments later the orchestra was reduced to the finest harp sounds, the lighting bathed everything in a mild blue and in the middle of a jumble of cloths, smoke and light a figure floated onto the stage. 

"Icy wind and the steady flow of time, carried to thee this poor' creature.  
O, your prayers have been answered, my lord.  
So heavy a burden of fate is but upon thy shoulders." 

A vacuum opened up in the atmosphere of the theater as each pair of eyes stared at the creature moving gracefully and carefully across the misty boards.  
Fine cloths enveloped the graceful silhouette, like a thin layer of hoarfrost covering a flower on a cold winter morning.  
The hair flowed like a stream around the artfully decorated face; it wound its way to an impressive floral ornament near the temple, and plunged a few centimetres into the depths at the back of the head. Everything about this image was designed for perfection.  
Every single movement, every blink, every heartbeat.  
Michael could feel the blood pulsing in his veins.

"Be warned, O Prince,  
for this sword of ice shall obey only the brave soul' who opens up its heart to the only true flame of desire.  
But if hatred flows from its deeds, so flows the blade like a trickle of tears."

With the silvery shimmering weapon in his hand, the creature danced towards the prince and, accompanied by a sweeping gesture, handed him the sword. A quick movement and beautiful white arms closed around the upper body of the other actor.

"Know that thou are under my eternal watch, for thy eyes have met mine.  
Now and forever."

And time stood still for that one moment when their eyes locked.  
Michael wasn't sure if this godlike creature was really looking at him or just at the audience.  
He realised how unimportant this fact was to him as the apparition went on speaking.  
Meanwhile it was alone on stage.

"Why, Prince, do thou not dare to understand what my divine heart tenderly whispers to thee?  
Thus the trickle of tears is my own.  
Thus the pain of letting thee go is more unbearable than any heavy fate."

The monologue was flooded with emotion.  
Heartbreakingly, the spirit lamented its suffering over the injustice of love to the shining moon of paper at the back of the stage.  
Did Michael know this scene from the book?  
Did he remember it?  
He did not know it.  
But he didn't want to know it either.  
He preferred to let himself be carried away on the feelings of the performance, to a place in his heart that had not been touched for a long time.  
What he saw up there was art. And it brought tears to his eyes with its beauty.

After 90 minutes the bell rang again, the curtain was lowered and the chubby man announced a recess.  
Trembling, Michael stared at his hands. In his head the impressions he had just collected were racing like rapids through every corner of his mind.  
He wanted to see this play to end the confusion of the last weeks. Instead, he crouched silently in his seat and felt these wonderful moments of Lowell on stage burning deeper and deeper into his subconscious.  
Zaza's tales did not even begin to do justice to the young man's breathtaking charisma, Michael had to admit.  
As fast and restless as his breath was going, he didn't feel ready for the second act. But the curiosity that almost drove him crazy was much too arousing for him to leave now. He had to see more, much more.  
The image of this incredible apparition had to take hold of him even stronger.  
It had been years since Michael had felt so inspired. 

"Shall I, in my last moments, be granted tears from my dearest one?  
What happiness..."

The water sprite lay gracefully in the Prince's arms, reaching out a hand to him.  
An attack by the evil sorcerer had almost torn the prince from his life, but the being wrapped in cloths had thrown itself protectively before him.  
Michael's eyes hung fascinated on Lowell's body.  
He studied every millimeter, every movement and filed everything neatly in his artistic mind.

"My prince will follow thy heart, though it be hers, not mine.  
I...will wait beyond the horizon for thy return..."

The harp fell silent and the spirit collapsed lifelessly at the prince's chest. Accompanying this dramatic event the light was extinguished and behind Michael some visitors sobbed into their handkerchiefs. He himself, however, remained motionless in his seat and tried to process what he had seen.

Michael let the rest of the play rain down on him without being emotionally invested. He remained attentive but none of the scenes reached even the proximity of Lowell's performance and when the curtain began to fall after a good half hour he sighed in relief.  
Meanwhile, the crowd behind him rolled over in deafening applause that surged forward like a wave of sound.

"Lowell, I love you!"

"Lowell!"

"Take my hand, Lowell!"

The bundled femininity, which seemed to lose all nerves on the back rows, screamed and yelled and howled like an unpleasant chorus of bats.  
The accompanying clapping of the rest of the audience completed the noise concert, while on stage the conductor picked up his well-deserved share of applause.  
Just when Michael had decided to finally escape this emotional turmoil, the chubby announcer stomped in his way.

"Please follow me, Mr. Ravires. You're expected backstage," he hummed with a light singsong in his voice and pointed to one of the wooden doors at the top of the orchestra pit.

Confused at first by the fact that his surname seemed to be known, the young artist shuffled disconcertedly after the little man.  
What was the meaning of this now? He wanted to go home and think. His mind was calling out to him from all directions that he had to somehow make his head empty.  
That his body would calm down, for the blood was still shooting through his veins with far too much pressure and far too hot.

"Mr. Bridges, your visitor," the announcer proclaimed as they stood in front of an elaborately decorated door in the back of the theater. 

Michael hadn't even noticed which corridors they had walked along, he had already thought himself into a trance. What was that again? Lowell?  
He definitely didn't want to see him right now.

"H-hold on, I just remembered, I really need to..."

But in the next moment the door flew open and the familiar sky-blue hair appeared, accompanied by that impertinent grin.  
"Well done, Sebastian. Now bring me the wine from the Cabinet," Lowell said without a feeling of gratitude in his voice, turned around and disappeared again. However, he left the door open.

Sebastian was gone around the next bend before Michael turned back as well.  
He didn't like to be alone with the actor in his present condition because of whom he had been sitting on the stage place emotionally and physically very strained.  
That was dangerous and he didn't feel able to face such a danger.

"Close the door when you come in. It's a little drafty," he heard Lowell call out to him. Hesitantly, he approached the dressing room again; stared through the gap. 

The actor, still in his water-spirit costume, stood in front of a man-sized mirror and looked at himself extensively from all sides. The cloths still wrapped around his beautiful figure as gracefully as Michael was allowed to admire it during the play.  
After another moment of hesitation, he finally stepped inside and pushed the door back into the lock with a slight click.

"I shouldn't be here," said the artist, turning his eyes away to focus on anything but the posing Lowell. 

The dressing room was almost festively decorated. No less than three mirrors were found on the walls, as well as several busts with parts of costumes. In one corner there was an impressive chest of drawers on which various brushes and bottles stood and right next to it a clothes rail with glittering jackets and trousers in endless colours and shapes.  
The whole room was filled with the numbing aroma of the flowers that were placed everywhere. But Michael had not expected anything else. 

"Of course you should, I invited you after all," it came almost directly from the water ghost in front of the mirror, for whom his belly was currently the most interesting part of his body "So? What do you think of the show?" 

Uncomfortably, the artist slipped his hands into his trouser pockets.  
"It was...quite nice," he murmured. He should leave again. He should flee and move to another town. 

Lowell elegantly removed the floral ornament clip from his hair, and it fell gracefully down his back like a little blue river. 

'Without the curls, much longer than expected...' thought Michael, eyes following the young man who had taken a towel from a dresser.  
A soft laugh escaped Lowell as his question was answered. With a few steps he walked through the room and stopped a few feet away from the surprised Michael.

" 'Quite nice.' Looked very different to me a moment ago," Lowell whispered smugly, stripping a strand from his face "I noticed you were glued to me."

Embarrassed, his cheeks turned red.  
He retreated slightly until the door in his back stopped him, but Lowell kept pushing himself closer and closer.

"Do I make you nervous, Michael?"

"What is this nonsense…“

There it was again.  
This strange fascination, which Michael had already felt during the play and made his whole body tingle.  
Now this crazy little spark danced in the dangerous amber eyes that looked up at him in a few centimeters distance.  
His heart began to beat faster, his escape reflex tore desperately at his legs, which refused to move. It felt as if the young man in front of him was indeed a swirling spirit in the water and Michael was completely unable to grasp even a tiny part of it. An artistic mystery, through and through.

Eventually Lowell interrupted the moment with a gloating laugh and finally took a few steps back from Michael. His arms gave a soft crackling sound as he stretched.

"Calm down, it was only a joke," said the actor in a good mood, gently patting his forehead with the towel. "Sometimes you just fall into your roles."

'I'm not laughing...', Michael murmured to himself in his thoughts and suppressed the heat that was rising in his cheeks.  
He was absolutely not up for that kind of fun.

"Well, why did you want me to come here?" he asked Lowell, who was now sitting at his dressing table, brushing his hair with a comb. 

"So you can thank me," came in reply from the seat at the lighted mirror.  
Michael tilted his head. 

"Thank you?"

"Without me, Monsieur Galagar would not have paid a single Gil for your messed up work. Besides, I'm the reason you got such a good seat in the show."

Michael began to boil. Not once could he have a conversation with Lowell without him slapping him down or wallowing in his bloated narcissism.  
He regretted ever having thought anything positive about that terrible ego person.

"I guess that makes us even, doesn't it? If you didn't want my money, that is,“ sighed Lowell and looked closely at his make-up "Although an autograph would certainly have been worth much more.“

No inspiration and no spectacle in the world was worth him being treated like that.  
Nothing could justify these insulting allegations.

"What if I prove it to you?" Michael squeezed out between his teeth, fixing the back of Lowell's head.

"Prove what?"

"That I can create a work of art to rival your performance."

The actor stood up from his seat and turned sweepingly to Michael.  
His beautiful face was adorned with a smile and his eyes were lit up with excitement.

"Is this a challenge?"

"No," Michael replied, realizing too late that he, too, had begun to grin ambitiously "A declaration of war." 

Tired, Michael dropped onto a chair in his studio.  
The last days had been exhausting and sleepless, but rarely had he been so full of energy and motivation.  
The work went on, the first sketches looked good and slowly but surely he could start to finalize the rough draft. At the same time he still had to work on a commission, but he drew a lot of inspiration from his passion project to finish the painting in an exemplary way.  
At last the young artist was satisfied with himself. An assessment he had not been able to make about himself for a long time.

The tower clock of the theater at the end of the street told him that a performance had just ended and a sigh escaped his lips.  
Michael stood up, freed his hands from paint residue and put the kettle on the stove.  
A melody on his lips, he was sitting at the work table a few minutes later with a hot cup of tea, scribbling thoughtless outlines on a piece of paper.  
Then there were several knocks on the door in quick succession.

"Let me in, I only have a ten-minute lead," cried a familiar voice through the tilted window.  
Another knock followed.

With all the peace and quiet in the world, Michael climbed up the stairs and deliberately opened the wooden door slowly, but only a crack wide. 

"Yes?"

"Now it's only six minutes."

"I can close the door again, you know?"

Lowell smiled amused and put his hands on his hips.  
"It's a good thing you wouldn't just abandon me like that. That's why you'll be glad to offer me a cup of tea." 

Michael shook his head in defeat.  
He was sure that everything about this acquaintance was dangerous and would only cost his nerves.  
Many tantrums and confusing moments included. But Michael wanted to give in to this inspiring curiosity.  
He also had a challenge to overcome.

"Come in."


End file.
